


where the light is

by thatdarkhairedgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Developing Friendships, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Post-War, Rebuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-16 17:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2279016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatdarkhairedgirl/pseuds/thatdarkhairedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pansy and Justin, after the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. this woman's work

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by prompts on a table from rarepair_shorts.

Mondays are one of the busiest days to be working at the Leaky Cauldron, and Pansy always has her work cut out for her. There are tables to attend to, drinks to make, and all the while she has to keep her tongue in check whenever one of the patrons makes some snide allusion as to where her “loyalties lie.”

Lately, these comments are less tear-inducing and more grating on her nerves. If she could she’d not only quit, but hex the eyebrows off of every customer who questioned her motives right before she went. But she _needs_ this job, no matter what she tells Draco or her mother or herself, so when Hannah asks her to do something – “Justin’s just over in the corner, Pansy, could you take him his dinner?” – Pansy does as she’s asked and picks up the plate from the window to the kitchen. No use in delaying the inevitable – she’s learned that the hard way.

When she first sees him, she thinks of the interview he and Penelope Clearwater gave in _The Daily Prophet_ not long after the prisoners of Azkaban had been released; she thinks of the photographs that accompanied the lengthy article of a pair of near-skeletons, their eyes unnaturally large in their sockets, their skin stretched tight across their bones. She remembers seeing him in the halls at Hogwarts and the way he looks now nearly makes her heart stop. Four months after Azkaban, even after the treatments he undoubtedly went through at St. Mungo’s, Justin Finch-Fletchley is still unbelievably _thin_. He is only eighteen, but there is already grey streaking through his curly hair and lines on his face that would be commonplace on a man ten years older.

She coughs when she stops at his table, trying to get his attention, and he doesn’t look up as he begins shuffling some of his textbooks off to the side. Pansy sets down the plate, watching as he tries to neaten up his booth so that he can eat without getting crumbs all over his paperwork. The tabletop is an absolute _mess_ ; a number of papers are scattered everywhere, and a half dozen books are open both on the table and the empty seat next to him. There are notes and annotations scrawled in the margins of _everything_ and it makes Pansy think of the dreadful week she spent in fifth year preparing for her OWLs.

When his eyes finally flick up to meet hers, he seems surprised. Pansy knows she’s fallen far, and after the day she’s had, she knows it shows. Her hair is falling out of the bun she’d pulled it into that morning and she is suddenly hyperaware of how dirty she is: the burn marks on her apron, the coffee stain on her blouse. She can already feel the residue of the day settling into her skin.

“Homework?” she asks, trying to be polite, and he shrugs.

“No, my, um…my placement exams are tomorrow,” Justin confesses, gesturing towards the clutter around him like it explains everything. “I needed to go someplace where I could think without getting distracted.”

“And a noisy pub makes for a _perfect_ studying environment.”

If he’s offended by her cheek, Justin doesn’t let it show. “It’s better than my place, at any rate. Ernie’s just discovered the magic of surround-sound stereo and won’t stop blasting his music. I'm really starting to regret getting him that Queen CD for his birthday, because I honestly think if I have to hear ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ one more time I’m probably going to lose my mind.”

It’s like gibberish, almost, or as if he switched from English to Hungarian mid-sentence. Pansy has no idea what a “Queen CD” is or who “Surround-Sound Stereo” might be, but she nods her head as if she does and hopes that Justin won’t say anything further. He doesn’t, and goes on to curse the complexity of one of the sample cases he’s studying from.

“How can you think that’s hard?” she asks incredulously. “It’s a simple matter of property ownership – van Nortwick spells it out very clear, look, I’ll show you…”

As she leans over to point out the proper paragraph in his textbook, Justin gives her a disbelieving look and asks, “How do _you_ know that?”

She blushes, suddenly uncomfortable with the attention he is paying her. “My aunt, she was an Advocate. She, er, she got certified when I was little, and I spent the whole summer reviewing with her. I guess some of it got stuck in my head, you know?”

“Oh,” he says, accompanied by a little shake of his head. He picks his sandwich up from the plate. “Thanks, Pansy.”

“Anything else I can get for you?”

“Not really.” Justin takes a bite and swallows. “But would you be up for sticking around for a bit? Maybe help me study?”

The invitation is obviously not planned, and even he looks shocked by it; there’s a moment where worry flickers in his eyes, like she might actually say yes. Pansy can’t blame him: there’s a split-second where she actually does consider taking the empty seat across from Justin and spending the rest of her evening with him, but then her father’s disapproving frown swims behind her eyes and she remembers where she is, _who_ she is. The noise beyond the booth grows louder.

“Sorry, I can’t. Hannah needs me on the floor.”

Pansy rushes away before he can say anything else, anxiously brushing her hands on her apron as she ducks back behind the bar. Another customer asks her to pour him another drink and as she refills his mug of mead, she glances back towards the corner where Justin is sitting. His head is once again bent over his books and he is not looking anywhere near her direction.

_He doesn’t matter_ , she thinks, _He’s a **Muggleborn** , he doesn’t **matter**_.

A hollow feeling fills her chest. The realization doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t feel _good_ , either.


	2. yesterday's papers

It's a cool September evening when Justin Finch-Fletchley storms into the Leaky, slamming the door behind him so hard that Pansy's head snaps up at the noise. He strides over to the bar and pulls out the stool nearest her with such force that he actually knocks it backwards; Pansy closes the till she's been counting as he rights his chair, grumbling and scowling as he takes a seat and drops an armful of crumpled magazines on the counter.

"Ogden's," he orders, "Straight. And leave the bottle."

Pansy smooths out her skirt and complies, glancing at him over her shoulder as she grabs a clean glass from the space near the sink, a dusty bottle from the bottom shelf. Justin doesn't acknowledge her presence as she pours, just stares straight ahead at the mirrored wall behind her with a shuttered-off look as he immediately drains the glass she'd set in front of him. His hands are shaking as he grips the by the neck to fill it again and Pansy eyes him curiously, worriedly. This isn't the Justin who comes into a noisy pub to study; this isn't the handsome, joking young man who's spent the past two months leaving Pansy decent tips and teasing Hannah over drinks long after the pub's officially closed for the night. He is anxious and angry, overflowing with the feeling, and Pansy leans against the bar, asking without thinking, "So who spit in your cauldron?"

She's trying to be friendly, aloof. He blinks at her. "What did you say?" He's defensive, demanding. " _What did you say to me?_ "

"Nothing, honest." Justin is setting his shoulders, squaring them like he's preparing for an argument, but Pansy doesn't shrink back. "You're just - you're not usually like this. Did something happen at the Ministry?"

Justin only stares at her in response, and within seconds all the fire he'd been building up seems to burn out; he deflates, slumping forward against the bar, threading his fingers through his hair, and for the first time Pansy actually looks at the papers he'd been carrying. There's about twenty copies of the same issue of _Witch Weekly_ , all bearing the same less-than-clever title _Cheating Clearwater: Britain's Golden Girl Caught In The Act!_ Unsurprisingly, Rita Skeeter's name is the one gracing the byline. The cover picture is grainy, taken from a distance, but the couple embracing in a building's entry alcove is unmistakably Justin and Penelope Clearwater. He must have bought the whole stack off the newsvendor outside the Apothecary.

Justin scrubs a hand over his face and doesn't look at her. "You know about Penelope, right?" he asks, voice low, and Pansy nods because who doesn't, these days? She read the papers, she knows the story. "She and I - we, we got close. Back then. And you don't even - _they_ don't - they've got _no idea_ -"

He breaks off and takes a long drink from his glass. Pansy refills it without being asked.

"It's _disgusting_ ," he snarls, pushing the topmost copy of _Witch Weekly_ toward her with obvious contempt. "She's getting _married_ , and all they can talk about is whether or not _I'm_ going to wreck the wedding."

There's a moment where Justin looks like he's about to say something else, but then seems to think the better of it and focuses his attention on finishing the contents of his glass. He's drunk so much in such a short time Pansy's a little surprised he hasn't fallen off his barstool, and when he moves again for the bottle she slides it out of his reach, ignoring the reproachful look he gives her for his trouble.

"Listen," she says, "I know you're a Hufflepuff, and raking up trouble with others is _terribly_ out of your comfort zone, but if it's bothering you this much, you need to sue the pants off these people. Slander - or libel, whatever, defamation of character's a big thing, nowadays, and Rita Skeeter's going after everyone she can now that Hermione Granger's officially taken the 'Golden Trio' off the table."

He looks again like he wants to say something to her, but only stares down at the pile of magazines lying between them.

"But what do I know? I'm just the hired help. And anyway," she admits, "It's not like _you're_ the only one she's gone after," and Justin looks up at that, surprised. She's not - Pansy fought for Potter in the end and submitted to everything the Ministry asked of her after her family fled the country, but she still finds _Traitor_ scratched into the wood of her door some mornings, still gets death glares from customers as she takes their orders. This is the reason she barely leaves the Alley, this is the reason she's got anti-theft charms on all of her belongings and three different locks on the door.

"You? But I thought -"

"That was ages ago. Used up all my usefulness at fourteen." She gives him a wry smile. "Turns out I made a much better subject than I ever did a source."

He has no answer to that, and she doesn't expect him to. Silence pools between them as she sets the Ogden's back behind the bar, and Pansy waves his hands away as he reaches for his wallet. "This one's on me," she tells him, and he nods at her, understanding. "Don't get used to it," she adds, and he doesn't answer.

A week later, she's bored and buying a copy of _Amortentia_ when she sees it: stacked amongst the glossy copies of _International Quidditch_ and _Kneazle Fancy_ , _Witch Weekly_ is wrapped up and sealed by a thirteen-page retraction, hiding the cover and binding the pages shut until the purchaser reads it entirely. The newsvendor grumbles at her when he sees what she's looking at, passing over her change and muttering about how "spells like that are bad for business," but all she can think of is how Justin must have listened to her. He _listened_ to her.

Pansy hides her laugh behind her hand.


	3. runs in the family

“…and remember the struggles of the blood – it is the nature of those of lesser standing to want to destroy what is not theirs, what they can never have. Fifteen generations of pure blood flows through your veins. Never forget, my darling girl: you are the daughter of a noble house.”

Auror Savage stops reading and Pansy shifts uncomfortably in her hard-backed chair, folding her hands neatly in her lap. The Auror Office is crowded, narrow cubicles laid out like honeycomb across the bustling floor. Savage’s workspace is tucked into the corner farthest from the false windows, dim but not dark, crowded with filing cabinets and press clippings tacked to the walls. A cluttered desk half-buried under paperwork separates them, and he sets down the letter with a disinterested look.

“Charming,” he says, and Pansy closes her eyes. “Anything else?”

She blinks. “I don’t… what more do you want? I – I turned in the letter! He mentions hiding near Innsbruck! Isn’t that enough?”

“You waited two weeks to bring it in. How do I know this isn’t meant to throw us off your father’s trail?”

Savage is so sure of his words, so serious, and the thought of it almost makes Pansy laugh: her father’s been on the run since May, and her mother left for France three days after Hogwarts burned, scooping up Pansy’s younger brother and all the gold she could carry before sweeping off to Calais for the duration, leaving Pansy behind. This is the first she’s heard from either of her parents in months; she’s had to survive on her own.

“I was torn,” she tells him honestly, “It’s… he’s my father. I didn’t know what to do.”

Savage eyes her suspiciously over the rim of his bifocals and Pansy straightens her shoulders, meets his gaze dead on. “I’ll look into it,” he tells her with a sigh, and when she rises to leave, he adds, “Don’t get your hopes up on leniency because of this. Remember, Miss Parkinson: he’s wanted for a reason.”

The Auror Office is a mess to navigate, and in her effort to leave she sidesteps files and people and what she thinks might be an enchanted ottoman running circles in the walkway in her effort to make it to the main door. At one point she makes a sharp turn, hoping to avoid a group of Hit Wizards avoiding their paperwork and playing darts with one of their many “Wanted” posters, only to collide, head-first, into the hard chest of one of the Advocates heading down the opposite way.

“Pansy? Oh, Jesus, I’m so sorry –” a familiar voice says somewhere above her, and she cringes inwardly from her place on the floor. _Of course_ it would be _Justin_ she ran into today, and _of course_ she’d hit him hard enough to fall flat on her arse. Justin holds out his hand to help her to her feet and she accepts it grudgingly, dusting herself off. She nearly keels back over when she recognizes the woman standing next to him.

A little older, a little greyer, Amaryllis Montgomery looks almost the same as she did the last time Pansy saw her, back when she was still Amaryllis Parkinson and Pansy's father was throwing everything his sister had once owned into a bonfire. She'd managed to salvage part of the photograph from her commencement ceremony, taken at the luncheon the Inn held in honor of all the freshly-graduated Advocates; Pansy kept it hidden in her bedside drawer for years.

“Madam Montgomery, this is my friend –” Justin starts, and Amaryllis shakes her head.

“I know who she is.” Her voice is terse, clipped. “Hello, Pansy.”

“Aunt… I mean, it’s good to see you, Madam. I… I was sorry to hear about your son,” Pansy says, and despite Amaryllis’s distrustful look, she means it – werewolf attacks are nasty affairs; at his age, Ben Montgomery would have been lucky to survive it. Maybe it’s luckier for his family that he didn’t.

“Thank you.” Amaryllis nods stiffly, then turns to Justin. “I’ll see you next week. Bring the case files we talked about and I’ll help you get started.”

Justin thanks her and shakes her hand, and Amaryllis Montgomery leaves without another word to anyone, disappearing into a nearby office and shutting the door. Pansy breathes in relief; she isn’t sure what else she’d expected.

The Auror block is connected to the Department of Magical Law by a long hallway, leading to the elevator’s vestibule and eventually, the exit to the main Atrium. The walk has never seemed longer than it does right now. Justin falls into step beside her, waiting with her for the next elevator when they finally get to the hallway’s end.

“I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

“I told you – my aunt’s an Advocate.”

He gives her a strange, sideways look. “She’s never mentioned –”

“She left when I was five. I haven’t seen her since.”

“So this was –”

“The first time, yes,” she interrupts impatiently, jabbing her thumb against the call button. “Mother used to keep tabs on her, so she’d have something to cover for at luncheons –not _everyone_ had delightful little stories about secret torture chambers under the library. _Some of us_ had blood-traitor aunties with hero complexes just _ripe_ for gossip.”

She hits the button again and he grips her by the wrist to stop her.

“My aunt, she… she had these records, you know? Stupid, plate-sized things – _Muggle music_.” She sniffs, staring down at the floor, the shiny tips of her shoes. She can feel Justin’s eyes on her and can’t bring herself to look at him, not while the weight of the whole day is collapsing on her. “Paul Simon. She… she used to play them when she studied, and Papa would always complain about the noise. But I liked them, so she’d turn the music down, but not completely off.”

The elevator comes and his hand slides from her wrist. She steps on and doesn’t look up until the doors close.


	4. set our lovely sky on fire

It’s Bonfire Night and too warm for November, the moon hanging full and white overhead as Pansy follows the high street back to the Leaky Cauldron, almost at the end of her dinner break. There are lots of people out tonight – party revelers, regular Auror patrol, a gang of boys her age loitering outside Pottage’s – but Pansy walks alone, her thumb brushing the handle of the wand in her pocket like a talisman. Justin surprises her a few shops from the Leaky, catching up with her right outside the apothecary; he tugs on her jacket to get her attention and she nearly hexes him before realizing who he is.

Justin jumps, startled, and nearly drops whatever is in his arms; Pansy blushes, embarrassed, and sputters out a quick apology. They push past the moment: he’s been looking for her, he says – he has _records_ for her, Muggle music, the pile of albums still threatening to spill out of his arms, slipping out of their dog-eared sleeves as he tries to rearrange himself under Mulpepper’s awning. The light around them is strange, half dark and half gold, and it casts odd shadows under Justin’s eyes, gives his jawline a sharper edge. She can hear fireworks in the distance.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says, “About the last time we… _you know_ , but… look, I thought you’d like to try listening to some of these. Consider it an education, courtesy of the Finch-Fletchley Family Archive.”

He pours his pile of records into her unready arms and Pansy wants to _laugh_ at the absurdity of it all: Hufflepuff’s favorite son and Slytherin’s fallen princess, the two of them standing outside a Diagon Alley shopfront in the dark and talking about Muggle folk singers. He looks so hopeful right then, so _earnest_ , and as she shifts her grip on the records Justin flips the top album over, nudging her towards the light so she can read the songs on the back. He leans in close, his arm brushing hers, and when Pansy looks at him again she thinks of the last time she saw him look this happy – fourth year, it had to be, the Justin in her memory sitting on the low wall in the courtyard with his friends, laughing and flashing one of Draco’s _Potter Stinks!_ badges at the passersby. The thought makes her want to smile.

“Who’s Joni Mitchell?” she asks him, and the world around them bursts into flames.

Glass explodes from shop windows and Pansy flings herself to the ground, arms over her head and dirt gritty against her teeth, pavement digging into her knees through the rips in her tights. Justin is in a similar state beside her, face streaked with soot and his panicked voice lost in the sound of the fire, people screaming, Aurors casting _Protego_ around the perimeter. Pansy digs her wand from her coat and grips it tight in her fist, her heart pounding hard in her chest as she crawls towards Justin, moving slowly and carefully through the shards of glass pricking at her skin, catching on her clothes. Her ears are ringing from the explosion and she can barely hear herself even as she tries to shout over the noise.

“Are you okay?” she shouts again, and Justin nods, scrabbling for his wand. Blood beads up on his chin where it scraped against the sidewalk. She staggers to her feet and helps Justin to his, and as they both survey the scene Pansy realizes, almost as if from a distance, that it wasn’t glass slicing up her elbows and knees: it was broken vinyl. She must have thrown the albums when she went to ground – everything Justin gave her is smashed to pieces.

The fire is out but the cauldron shop is still smoldering, the front window completely shattered and the displays inside destroyed. A grey haze has settled over the Alley from the smoke and Pansy shrieks as Auror Savage seems to materialize directly out of the fog: Justin clutches Pansy’s free hand in his as the light from the Auror’s wand nearly blinds them both, Savage’s demeanor all business as he orders her to hand over her wand for a _Priori Incantatem_.

“I’m a _witness_ ,” she hisses, humiliated and bleeding. “I was going back to _work_. I wasn’t even anywhere _near_ the building.”

Savage ignores her, eyes following the smoky trail left by the _Scourgify_ she cast two hours ago. “We have reason to believe the men responsible are ex-Slytherins, likely from this year’s graduating class.” He hands back her wand handle-first before he asks her, “Could you identify them?”

Pansy suddenly finds herself blinking back tears – from the smoke, from the pain, from the question. She peers around Savage’s shoulder to where the culprits are being handcuffed: the mist is clearing, revealing the group of boys she’d passed outside Pottage’s – _God_ , not even half an hour ago.

“Graham Pritchard,” she says, “He’s the one with the paint. Finnigan’s got Nathan Vaisey in a headlock. I don’t – I don’t know the other two, they might be Ravenclaws.”

Savage nods, then glances back towards the scene. “Good. We’ll need to take your statement, I’ll get – Patil! Patil, get Miss Parkinson bandaged up, and make sure Chang gets her statement before you let her go.”

No one comes to help her: Savage goes to make sure Finnigan doesn’t strangle their delinquents and Pansy stumbles back toward the sidewalk, scanning the street for Justin before she even realizes what she’s doing. She finds him kneeling on the ground in front of the apothecary, gathering up the pieces of the records she ruined; someone healed the cut on his chin, cleaned the grime from his face, but he’s still shaken and deathly pale, his whole body trembling as he picks carefully at the shards of vinyl, puts them into piles. There is a flash of the skeletal prisoner she saw in photographs in the movement: that sharp, aching emptiness painfully visible in the miserable hunch of his shoulders, the dark slashes underneath his eyes. Pansy gets down on her knees beside him and takes the shattered vinyl out of his hands, tears slipping down her cheeks as she waves her wand, murmurs _Reparo_ after _Reparo_. She doesn’t want to cry; she can’t seem to stop.

Justin lays one shaky, proprietary hand over the restored pile between them. His voice is thin, afraid, when he tells her, “I don’t think those pieces went together.”

Pansy picks up a record and trails a finger over the ridges, trying to find the mended cracks. She can’t, and sets it carefully back in the pile. “You’ll have to listen to it with me, then,” she says, voice thick, and smears the back of her hand under her eyes. “You’ll need to tell me what goes where.”


	5. the sound of your loneliness

Justin’s birthday is the week before Christmas and Hannah convinces Ernie MacMillan to help her rent out the Cauldron to throw him a surprise party, filling the bar with so many of their friends and classmates that the whole event could double as a Dumbledore’s Army reunion. Pansy is working the bar only as a courtesy to Hannah; she would much rather be back in the room she rents upstairs, drinking wine in her nightgown and painting her nails, than slinging beers and serving people who hate her. She could have stayed away, she reminds herself, cutting the tap so that Weasel King’s pint of Strange Brew isn’t all foam, but then she thinks of where she was last night, sitting cross-legged on the bed with her bills spread out flat on the duvet, and slides Ron Weasley’s beer across the counter.

Hannah promised her time and half for helping out at the last minute and honestly, Pansy has to admit that the evening hasn’t been so bad; Potter and his Auror pals spare her sharp glances and glares when they think she isn’t looking, but for the most part all the partygoers are leaving her be. It’s like any other night, exhausting and hilarious in equal turns, and by the time the birthday boy puts an official stop to the shots of Vipertooth Vodka most of the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws have gone home. It’s just the Hufflepuffs left at her corner of the bar, Justin surrounded by Hannah and Ernie and Susan Bones, the four of them wrapped up in a friendly conversation that Pansy tries not to eavesdrop on. She generally keeps her distance from Ernie and Susan if she can help it, and at least tonight it wasn’t hard; Ernie kept flexing his biceps for pretty witches he caught waiting for drinks, while Susan – who is still in her Auror finest and in _dire_ need of a _Sobritatius_ charm – flashed the knotty scar winding around her neck at nearly anyone who would pay her the slightest bit of attention.

Justin signals for a refill and Hannah’s ears have passed through five different shades of pink in the minute it takes Pansy to finish wiping down the counter and get the bottle of Draíochta off the shelf. Susan’s bragging about her arrest record again: seven months in the Aurors and you’d think she was Alastor Moody reincarnated from the way she goes on about _Incarcerous_ spells and interrogation techniques. Pansy pours a measure of bourbon into the glass and her fingers brush against Justin’s when he reaches out to take it from her, the grin he gives her in thanks making her stomach flip unexpectedly. It’s the conversation she’s walked in on, she’s sure of it: Susan Bones slurring on about Marcus Flint’s petition to enter the Auror Corps, and isn't that just a _travesty?_

“Why would he even _bother?_ ” Susan asks no one in particular. “Remember what a hulking _lout_ he was at school? Always swaggering around like the troll he is? There’s _no point_ in him trying to slither his way into the department, honestly! I mean, even if he _did_ make it in, it’s not like anyone will ever _trust_ him!”

“That’s so _petty_ ,” Pansy says without thinking, “Petty and _wrong_ ,” and four Hufflepuffs turn as one to look at Pansy like she’s suddenly sprouted antlers out of her forehead, like her hair has turned into Medusa’s snakes. She freezes, fighting the urge to clap her hand over her mouth; she forgets, sometimes, that she’s just a piece of furniture to some of these people, a House-Elf who should be seen and not heard. Susan cocks her head to the side and looks at her appraisingly, like she’s tallying up each and every nasty comment Pansy sent her way at school. Pansy doesn’t blame her – she’s counting them up herself, and she had a few good ones.

Hannah says something sweet about the nature of old loyalties, giving Pansy an apologetic smile, and Justin nods along. “I agree,” he starts to say, and Susan rolls her eyes.

“Another county heard from!” she laughs, bitter and low in her throat. “Another one who thinks we all forget our House colors once Hogwarts is behind us. Parkinson, you seem so interested, why don’t you tell me why I should let it go, eh? Go on, _explain_ to me why I should forgive all your Death Eater friends. I would actually _love_ to hear this.”

Susan slides forward on her elbows, trying to look exaggeratedly interested but only succeeding in knocking over her glass of firewhiskey. Ice cubes scatter around Pansy’s feet but she catches the glass before it falls, and Hannah vanishes the amber liquid spilling over the counter with her wand. Ernie and Hannah are doing their best to be polite, ignoring Susan pointedly but not trying to stop her; Hannah starts to help with the cleaning and Ernie actually has the gall to get up and _leave_ , sliding off his barstool in the middle of Susan’s little speech and wandering over to where the last of the Ravenclaw girls are huddled in the corner. Only Justin is still watching it all unfold, his gaze a neutral counterpoint to the laser-focus Susan’s fixed on everything Pansy is doing. Pansy flexes her fingers self-consciously before she picks up the bottle of Ogden’s; she’s shaking, just slightly, and doesn’t want to drop it.

“Merlin, why do I even _bother?_ ” Susan groans, “It’s not like it _matters_ , anyway. Can you even _imagine it?_ Getting all those monsters in one place? Even if we did it’s not like we’d all stand outside Gringotts in brotherhood, joining hands and singing ‘Kumbaya.’”

Hannah comes around the bar and starts shutting down the till, her elbow grazing Pansy’s as she moves into her space, trying to angle herself so that Pansy is blocked from Susan’s view. Susan sits with her chin propped on her palm and her eyes still on Pansy as Justin leans over to whisper something in her ear; he rests a tentative hand on her shoulder and she swats him off like an irksome fly.

“ _Hannah_ ,” she says, whiskey slow-and mean, “ _Darling_ , I know _you’re_ a soft heart, but tell me the truth: what’d that bint do to your granddad to get him to hire her? There are _plenty_ of good people out of work right now – why’d Tom have to go on and give a job to the daughter of a _Death Eater?_ ”

Hannah visibly flinches and Justin closes his eyes, leans back in his chair. Susan is still staring at Pansy, a smirk turning up the corner of her mouth as Pansy’s heartbeat speeds up to a hummingbird pace inside her chest. Pansy has an idea, but she isn’t a good enough Legilimens to know what Susan is thinking; she pours the witch another glass of firewhiskey and thinks of how the last time the two of them were alone together for an extended period of time, Susan was marked by the Carrows for detention and Pansy was the one assigned to Cruciate her. Everyone knows how terrible it is to be tortured; no one ever thinks about what it was like to be on the other side of the wand.

“He probably felt sorry for me,” Pansy finally says, whiskey sloshing over the sides of the glass that she sets down hard in front of Susan. “Either that or he likes my tits. Take your pick, Bones, it’s not like I care either way.”

Susan’s eyes narrow, her mouth twists, but Justin closes his hand over Susan’s wrist on top of the bar, staying her wand hand. Susan turns to glare at him and Hannah apologizes in her stead and Pansy just shrugs brusquely as she puts the Ogden’s back on the shelf, rubbing at her temples under the guise of pushing her hair behind her ears. She spells the empty glasses along the bar into the sink and undoes the knot in her apron, tossing it under the till.

“I’m taking a break,” she says to Hannah, who nods, and strides away as if she doesn’t hear Susan hissing “What a fucking _wench_ ,” in her wake.

Pansy makes it halfway down the hall before she realizes she’s run out of floor to walk on: she’d planned on going outside for a breath of fresh air, a minute to get her head together, but Susan had rattled her up so much she went in the exact wrong direction, ending up staring at the kitchen pantry with nowhere else to turn to. She ducks inside anyway, pulling the chain on the overhead light as she slams the door behind her, kicking at one of the bags of flour and pressing her clenched fists over her eyes. Everything, _everything_ , is so screwed up for her, now, and Pansy has been clawing and scratching her way up the social ladder since she was nine years old and none of it – _none of it!_ – not a single minute of plotting or scheming or planning every minute detail of her life can help her anymore. All that hard work, all that _wasted_ time, and there’s not a single thing left to show for it except this terrible job, this terrible _place_ , Susan Bones and her bloody thrice-damned _mouth_.

The door creaks when it opens and Pansy’s head snaps up to see Justin shuffling through the doorway. He looks guilty, looks _drunk_ , and he leans against a barrel of ale just across from her without saying anything. Pansy lowers her hands, staring at the chipping glitter polish flaking off into her palm, the half-moon indents her nails left in the heels of her hands. They don’t talk for a solid five minutes; she's been listening to his records, but this is the first time they’ve been alone together in weeks.

“You shouldn’t listen to Susan,” he says, finally breaking the awkward silence between them, pushing his hair out of his eyes as he does. “She’s just… she’s _a lot_ to handle all at once, and she’s got a lot on her plate right now. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Pansy crosses her arms over her chest, not in the mood for niceties. “She’s a bitch.”

“So were you.” He smirks at her. “Don’t think I don’t remember.”

“ _That’s_ not fair –”

“ _None of this_ is fair,” he replies, and he’s infuriatingly right: it isn’t. “I didn’t say she wasn’t out of line. She was.”

Justin pushes off from the barrel and Pansy automatically steps away as he moves into her space, backing up so that the ledge of the shelf hits her right at the shoulders. He reaches out and cups her elbow in one hand, palm warm through her sleeve, the two of them standing close enough that she can smell cigarettes and whiskey on him, his aftershave mixing in with the ale, the flour, her own perfume. She looks up at him through her eyelashes and her breath is caught in her throat, the line _it’s only me who wants to wrap around your dreams_ suddenly running on an arbitrary loop in her brain as Justin rubs his thumb against her arm.

“You could still try and be nice,” he says, “It’s my birthday,” and Pansy wishes him a happy one. She hasn’t gotten him anything, and she realizes now that she probably should have.

“It’s my birthday,” he says again, slower, like he’s trying to figure out the shape of the word. He leans in abruptly, hand coming up to her face, and there is a brief, hysterical second where Pansy thinks he’s going to kiss her. His eyes lock with hers, his lips part, but Justin doesn’t follow through: “You’ve – you’ve got a cobweb, right –” he says, and pulls a long string of spiderweb out from where her hair touched against the pantry shelves. Pansy jerks away from it, twisting under his arm as she tries to brush herself off, while Justin rubs the cobweb off on his pants and stuffs both hands into his pockets.

“I’ll tell Hannah you’re done for the night.” Pansy is already at the door when he says this, hand on the knob, and she pauses to look at him. Justin tries for a smile, adding, “I mean, you’ve done enough already. It’ll be your birthday gift to me – putting up with my friends for a night. Imagine what _your_ crowd would say, eh?”

Pansy nods, unable to speak; her voice feels like it’s been strangled out of her, sucked into a sea witch’s shell. She opens the door and Justin strides past her, and she lags back as he walks down the hall, listening to the sound of patrons shuffling out the doors, Hannah and her grandfather stacking chairs. _One night,_ she reminds herself – one night, no different than any other since she’s come here, and when she comes out from the pantry the bar is empty: Tom in his office and Hannah in the kitchen with the wireless on; Susan is gone and so is Ernie, so are the Ravenclaws.

So is Justin.


	6. survive its harshest hour

1998 ends with a bang: confetti and fireworks and music, bottomless glasses of champagne.

1999 starts with Astor Parkinson’s face plastered over the front page of the _Daily Prophet_.

Pansy has no idea that her father has been sighted in Berlin, rallying what’s left of the _Zauberschutz_ ; she’s still hungover when the news officially breaks, desperate for a Clarity Solution and blissfully unaware of anything but a dire need to brush her teeth until Aurors burst into her room at the Cauldron. It’s Proudfoot and Chang who force her into the Floo once she’s dressed, the overnight taste of champagne still bitter in her mouth as Tom tries to stop them, as they flash their badges and confiscate her wand, cart her away.

The Ministry is empty as they march her down the stairs, and all Pansy can think of is how she has never been in this part of the Auror block before; all her dealings with Savage have been in the main part of the office, or tucked away in his cubicle. The interrogation room they lead her into is cold and stark, purposefully Spartan with its plain wooden table and chairs, the grey walls, the mirror by the door someone is obviously observing them through. They offer her a paper cup of coffee that Pansy doesn’t touch, a pastry that has definitely seen better days. Nerissa Proudfoot leads the interrogation, standing back beside the mirror and asking question after question about Pansy’s mother, her extended family, her father’s business associates; Cho Chang chews her way through a pack of Drooble’s in the chair across from Pansy, scribbling down notes in sloppy, inky shorthand. Pansy slumps against the table with her arms folded on the surface, the tabletop cool where it presses against her wrists, and wishes for a draught of potion, a shot of whiskey – something, _anything_ , to clear her head.

“Any relatives in Berlin?” Proudfoot asks for what must be the third time, circling to the opposite side of the room as she does so. “What about Munich? Chernobog? Come on, Pansy, you’ve got a big, _pure_ family. Don’t tell me a girl like you can’t count her way through _fifteen generations_ – bet you could do it in your _sleep_.”

Pansy closes her eyes, rubs at her temples. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” she says, voice curling up into a petulant whine: “You think I know _anything_ about what my father’s done since May? Where he’s been? I’ve turned in _every_ letter he sent me –”

“Turned them in _late_ ,” Chang snorts, still snapping her gum. “Gives him plenty of time to get the move on from one safehouse to the next, doesn’t it?”

“Aiding and abetting a known criminal isn’t a misdemeanor,” Proudfoot adds, coming forward so that she towers over Pansy. “For _you_ , sweetheart, that’s a one-way ticket to Azkaban.”

Chang smirks. “Maybe you could share a cell. Get a whole block, just for the family.”

Proudfoot leans in like a friend, a confidant, kneeling down to Pansy’s level and waiting until Pansy meets her eyes. Pansy has never heard the charges against her father before, not in full, and she can feel the color draining from her face as Proudfoot ticks them off slowly on her fingers, drawing out the crimes, relishing in every flinch and cringe. She grips Pansy’s shoulder, nails digging in through the wool of her sweater, and Pansy bites down hard on her tongue. “You’re not protecting him by keeping quiet,” Proudfoot tells her, “You’re only making it worse for yourself.”

The interrogation room is soundproof by magical and architectural means, but neither one seems to be able to prevent the unexpected sound of heated arguing from bleeding through the walls. Proudfoot steps back at the sharp rise in outside noise, glancing confusedly at Chang, and Pansy turns in time to see the door burst open, the most unlikely savior in the world striding straight through it. Amaryllis Montgomery blows into the room like a gale-force wind: she throws her cloak onto the table, knocking over Chang’s ink bottle, and inserts herself between Proudfoot and Pansy like a human Shield Charm. Savage follows, old goat that he is, and tries in vain to pull Amaryllis out of the room; Justin slides in quietly behind him, seemingly invisible to everyone but Pansy in the presence of Madam Montgomery’s ongoing tirade.

“Not even an _Advocate!_ ” Amaryllis shouts, disgust etched into every line on her face as she squares off on each Auror in turn. “What kind of bloody _imbeciles_ are they letting into the Academy, these days? Have you even read this girl her _rights?_ Is she under arrest?”

“ _No_ , Madam.” Auror Proudfoot rolls her eyes; Chang is trying, and failing, to mop up her ink. “And as I’m _sure_ Auror Savage has already told you, Miss Parkinson is free to leave here at _any_ –”

Amaryllis laughs at that. “Free to leave at _any time_ , is she? You’ve given her _no option_ for legal aid, barred her from making any Floo calls, and have refused all explanations as to why she’s even _here!_ As far as I can tell, there is no information this girl can give you that wouldn’t _immediately_ be thrown out of court by a two-knut Knockturn Alley _shyster_ if this was ever brought before a judge!”

Amaryllis grabs the back of Pansy’s chair and yanks it backwards, the legs scraping loud over the floor as she glares at the Aurors across the table. “Pansy, get your coat. We’re leaving.” Pansy doesn’t move; she can only gape stupidly at her aunt, watching with wide eyes as Justin takes down Pansy’s jacket from the hook, as Amaryllis whirls back on Savage: “And as for _you_ , you should be _ashamed_ of yourself – just _wait_ until I take this to Robards, and to _Shacklebolt_ –”

Justin hands Pansy her coat as she rises and maneuvers her out the door. He keeps his hand at the small of her back as he leads her down through the Auror block and out toward the lifts; she can still hear Amaryllis arguing in the distance, things like _libel_ and _rights violation_ and _countersuit_ floating back to them as the elevator doors open, and Justin shuffles her inside. They ride up to the atrium in silence and the hall is empty when the doors open – no guards, no Ministry employees, the only movement coming from a few janitor-less pushbrooms sweeping away dust in the far corners. Pansy is dizzy as she sinks to the stone bench around the Fountain of Magical Brethren, the water flat and silent behind her as she tries to regain her bearings, stop this sudden, aching vertigo. She feels like she’s lived a lifetime since the Aurors brought her in; it’s impossible to believe that it’s only ten past noon.

“How… how did you even –?” she starts, and Justin sits down beside her.

“Hannah called me,” he says offhandedly, like this is something he does every day. “She told me they came for you with no warning, no warrant, nothing. I called Madam Montgomery right after – she isn’t too happy with me, but she still met me here.”

Pansy stares at him blankly, her mind still racing; she’s having a hard time reconciling the man who raised her with the dastardly mastermind the Aurors want him to be – her father is soft and well-educated, patient with his son and indulgent of his only daughter. He collects _bibles_ , for Merlin’s sake, old bloody _manuscripts_ , not torture implements or antique poisons. She keeps tripping over words like _conspiracy_ and _terrorism_ , _obstruction_ and _manslaughter_ and _espionage_ ; she feels faint, the room starting to spin around her so abruptly that she feels sick. Pansy falls forward, elbows braced on her knees and her head in her hands, fingers threading through her hair; everything is happening so _fast_ , weeks and months of _nothing_ speeding up and slamming together to fill the first minutes of a clean new year with more trouble than she’s ever had in her life. Her breath catches hard in her chest and she hiccups through it, Justin’s knee bumping against hers as he leans into her space, tells her over and over again, “Hey, Pansy, c’mon – _breathe_.”

“I’m sorry this is so hard for you,” Justin says to her, honest, _meaning it_ , and Pansy suddenly _hates_ that startling flash of Hufflepuff goodness in him; hates him for showing compassion for _her_ , miserable Slytherin bitch that she is, a woman who can’t help but feel love for the man who kissed the scrapes on her elbows and read her _Babbity Rabbity_ every night for a year. The Death Eaters deserve what they get, deserve every inch of it, she _knows_ they do, but she doesn’t think of the Death Eater when she thinks of Astor Parkinson; right now he is still her father – right now, he is still her _dad_.

Justin’s hand is warm where it rests on her back, right between her shoulder blades, and she thinks of how different things were just last night: celebrating with the rest of the guests at Hannah’s New Year’s Eve party, listening to the midnight countdown on the wireless and helping pass champagne around the room. She’d wound up at Justin’s side right as the chanting in the room hit ten seconds; their fingers brushed as she handed him a glass and when their eyes met, there was a heartbeat at six seconds where Pansy thought about kissing him – thought about just lifting herself up onto her tiptoes and pressing her lips to his – but Susan Bones grabbed hold of Justin’s elbow at four seconds and pulled him away before Pansy could even move. Her mother used to say that what you did on New Year’s Eve, you carried with you all year long, and Pansy is suddenly _terrified_ that it might be true. She has no family left, she has so few friends; she doesn’t want to enter this year with an empty heart.

 “Thank you,” she says, unable to get out anything else, and when she lifts her head to look at him there’s an unreadable expression on Justin’s face. He looks like he wants to say something else, but before either of them can speak Amaryllis Montgomery sweeps out of the elevators, striding purposefully across the marble floor in their direction with an exasperated, “ _There_ you are!”

Justin backs off quickly at Madam Montgomery’s approach, leaving a solid five inches of space between his knee and Pansy’s. Amaryllis doesn’t notice: “I went through half the Auror Office before I realized you must’ve gone upstairs,” she says to Justin, and then turns to Pansy. “At least it gave me time to fill out the release form on your wand.”

She offers the wand back handle-first and Pansy thanks her as she takes it, the cypress warm and familiar against her palm. Amaryllis holds her grip on the end for a moment longer than she should, aunt and niece locking eyes over the length of the wand; this is the longest conversation they’ve had in almost two decades, and look what it took for them to get there. Pansy attempts a smile and fails, ducking her head as she tucks her wand away, and Amaryllis simply moves past it, thanking Justin for alerting her to Pansy’s situation.

“Have other things like this happened?” she asks, and the way she narrows her eyes at Pansy’s nod, in that moment it’s far too easy to see the similarities in the hard set of her jaw, the familiar line of the Parkinson nose that matches Pansy’s, her father’s. “Write me next week,” she says, “Send an owl to my office once the holiday’s over. Let’s see if we can get the Aurors out of your business, shall we?”

She holds out her hand to Justin, who rises to shake it, and there’s an awkward pause as Pansy stands, reaching out tentatively in her own overly-polite goodbye. She feels like she should curtsy. Amaryllis nods at them both before she leaves, making her exit through one of the nearby fireplaces in a swirl of green flames and glowing embers, leaving them alone at the silent fountain.

“I better get back to the Leaky,” Pansy eventually says to him. “Hannah must think I’ve _died_ , after all this mess.”

There’s a momentary flash of what might be disappointment in Justin’s eyes, but it disappears so quickly Pansy wonders if she imagined it. “Probably for the best,” Justin agrees, winding his scarf around his neck. “Can’t have that, can we? After all, good help is _so_ hard to find these days.”

Pansy breathes out a short laugh as they both walk toward the Visitor’s Entrance, fastening up the buttons on her coat as she moves. Justin holds open the door for her on the false telephone box, punching in the lift code over her shoulder once he squeezes in behind her. Pansy holds her breath, uncomfortably aware of all the places Justin’s body presses against hers in the narrow space; their faces are level in the glass panels as they rise back to the street level, their shared reflection translucent as a ghost. It’s cold outside the Ministry, snow falling lightly onto the alley they resurface into, and Pansy pauses once they reach the empty street, unsure of how to thank him – unsure of how to say goodbye.

She doesn’t have to: “Let me walk you back,” Justin says, nodding towards the road, and they both know it’s only a fifteen-minute walk from here to the doors of the Leaky Cauldron.

Pansy smiles. She lets him.


	7. heart's a mess

There’s no romance involved when it comes to working on Valentine’s Day, but it isn’t for a lack of trying: Hannah’s decorations in the Cauldron’s main room bring to mind Hogwarts under Professor Lockhart’s influence, or Madam Puddifoot’s on that disastrous date Pansy had with one of the boys from Durmstrang. Pink and white streamers cloud over the doorways and red paper hearts wind up the rails of the staircase and Pansy ignores it all, waiting tables and taking inventory and somehow feeling better than she has in _ages_. Hannah teases her on their lunch break, asks after the new man who put her in such a good mood, but Pansy isn’t lying when she says there isn’t anyone; besides, _Hannah’s_ the one who’s been getting flowers delivered all day long. Wouldn’t there be roses waiting for _her_ if some handsome wizard caught her fancy? Wouldn’t there be chocolate and cards, dinner for two, a diamond bracelet?

“I expect _only_ the best,” Pansy says, flicking her hair back over her shoulder, and Hannah laughs, conceding.

It’s late by the time Pansy finishes closing, and she does it alone; Tom and the rest of the kitchen staff have gone home, Hannah has cut out early to catch a late dinner elsewhere with her nameless admirer. Pansy counts the register and cleans the tables, humming along with the wireless as she stacks chairs and sets the brooms to sweeping. Upstairs the Silencing Charms have sealed off the happy couples renting rooms, but there is still the shuffle of feet against the floor, laughter and low music drifting down the stairs; Pansy ignores the lonesome feeling in her chest and turns up the radio instead, standing on her tiptoes to take down the decorations.

Glitter drifts down in flakes from the cardboard hearts hanging over the tables to catch on Pansy’s shirtsleeves, land in her hair, and Justin Finch-Fletchley is laughing at her when he walks in through the doorway on the Diagon side. She forgot to lock the back door, she realizes, but no matter: there’s no one left to reprimand her, and Justin’s welcome company. He brushes the sparkle off her shoulders and Pansy hates that the first thing she notices is just how _good_ he looks: he’s still in his work clothes – nice trousers, a button-down shirt, a waistcoat the color of tree bark – and Justin dresses like an Advocate _should_ , she thinks, warm colors and clean lines. He’s gotten a haircut, too, and she can see the black ink of the Azkaban tattoo at his neck where it disappears past his collar, the numbers on his wrist and forearm where he’s rolled up his sleeves. She steps away, arms full of pink and red paper, and ducks behind the bar to trash them in the bin.

“On your own tonight?” Justin loosens his tie as he follows her, stepping behind the counter. When Pansy doesn’t answer right away, he adds, “I’m in the same boat. Everyone’s out falling in love, and I’ve just been falling into a pit of paperwork at the Ministry.”

“I’m surprised they even let you out on a night like this,” she teases, “Who’d you have to bribe to let you leave before midnight?”

“Half the night guards,” Justin says solemnly, “And all the janitorial staff.”

There’s a bottle of Montaudon Brut Pansy has been eyeing all day and she reaches for it now, sidestepping Justin and happy to toss a few sickles into the till in the morning. She tucks the bottle under her arm and reaches for a pair of clean glasses, nearly tripping over him as she moves around to the front of the counter. Justin affectionately brushes her shoulder with his knuckles as she passes; he touches her with casual familiarity, but deliberately, like he means it. Pansy pops the cork and Justin is right there with her, taking the empty seat beside her and watching as she tilts her wrist to pour them both a generous measure of champagne. _Can’t drink alone_ goes unsaid between them, and Justin clicks his glass against hers in a silent toast.

They’ve gone through half the bottle by the time she somehow ferrets out the details of a recent date he’d been set up on: some Muggle girl his older brother knew, a blonde with a business degree he’d taken out for Thai food. She was _nice_ , he keeps telling Pansy – _nice_ , as if that was the only quality this woman possessed; _nice_ , as if that’s the only thing that mattered.

“She’s _nice?_ ” Pansy echoes, prodding him in the shoulder with a well-manicured nail. “Not funny, or intelligent, or a mad old bat? Do you even know what she does for a living? What she likes? Or did you just tune out everything after he told you _‘she’s nice’_?”

Justin snorts and ducks his head, slipping in his sobriety, leaning on his elbow against the bar. Pansy is distracted, and her thoughts flit to his brother the sixth time the word “nice” falls from Justin’s lips; she tries to picture his family and imagines men and women who are tall like him, most likely, fair-skinned with curly hair, Justin’s nose set in other faces. She wonders if the Finch-Fletchley brand of kindness is genetic, if Muggles can do that: pass down compassion and consideration the same way Hogwarts houses run in pureblood families.

“…I mean, these days I think need more than just _nice_ ,” Justin says, and it’s the _way_ he says it that pulls her back to the present. “I need someone who’ll keep me on my toes. Someone with a little _bite_ , yeah?”

He laughs it off, refilling his glass, and Pansy feels lightheaded all of a sudden, her unsteady heartbeat pounding in her ears. Pansy has no Valentine, not this year, but she curled her hair with her wand this morning and dusted off her favorite ankle boots; she’s wearing her reddest lipstick, her flippiest skirt, her nicest perfume. She dressed to match the day, she thought, and it’s only now that it starts to dawn on her that she dressed this way for _Justin_ – for the _possibility_ of seeing him today, of all days.

“What about you?” Justin asks, and she nearly chokes on her drink when he adds, “Anyone special?”

“ _Not_ … there’s no one, not right now,” she admits, and Justin scoffs at her. “I’m too _mean_ ,” she adds: teasing, trying to make light. “Men want someone _sweet_ , like your Muggle. I know what they say – better a sweet tongue than bitter, right?”

Pansy swallows what’s left of her champagne, crosses and uncrosses her legs; she feels fidgety, tipsy, she wants something she can’t name. Justin looks at her thoughtfully and sets his glass to the side, leaning in conspiratorially so that when he tells her, “That’s not always true,” she can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, she can smell stringmints on his breath under the champagne. Justin sits with his arm against the counter as he talks to her, sleeve back, wrist up, and Pansy doesn’t know _why_ she reaches out for Justin, only that she wants to.

They keep having these little _moments_ , flirtations so quick and so small that with anyone else she’d just assume ignorance, or _inexperience_ , but Pansy has five years of Divination under her belt and she _still_ can’t figure out what any of this means. Is it luck that keeps pulling Justin Finch-Fletchley into her orbit? Or is it fate that keeps pushing them into trying circumstances – maybe chance, some kind of divine intervention? His hand is warm where it rests under hers, pulse jumping under her fingertips, under the ink of his tattoo. The pad of his index finger moves lightly against her palm, and Pansy’s breath hitches in her throat when Justin raises his eyes to meet hers.

There’s a shiver of hesitation in the air between them, the moment suddenly tense as piano wire, and when Justin leans in and presses his lips to hers Pansy doesn’t move, not at first. It’s sheer surprise that keeps her frozen against the brush of his mouth over her own; light and gentle, careful as an unasked question, and there is stubble on his cheek that grazes against her palm when she lifts her hand to his face, her heart rattling inside her ribcage at this strange sudden nearness. Pansy gives herself over to the feeling, dizzy like she’s falling, and deepens the kiss; there’s the warmth of his body against hers as she moves closer, the unfamiliar sensation of his tongue brushing her lower lip, her own heart thudding in her chest. It’s been so long since someone kissed her, since someone _wanted_ her, she feels like she’s fallen out of practice.

Pansy makes a soft, desperate noise when Justin pulls away, and a little voice in the back of her mind tells her that she shouldn’t sound so eager – she shouldn’t be so vocal about how much she wants this. Justin holds her at arm’s length, holds her still, and she can’t read his expression when he tells her, voice low, “We shouldn’t have done that.”

Her mouth is still buzzing from their kiss as he drops his hands, and the haze of confusion she’s clouded in only intensifies with their sudden separation. _We shouldn’t have done that?_ There’s no reason for this change of heart, no warning she could have caught – did she move too fast? Did she read the signs wrong? She shouldn’t have been so obvious, so _needy_ , but what about the records he lent her, the conversations they’ve had, that steady build from acquaintances to friends? What has all of this _been_ , then, these sad building blocks of reconstruction, if not… if he _didn’t_ …

Justin backs off, fingers latticed together in his lap, and Pansy can still feel the echo of where his fingertips dug hard against her shoulders, the ache of press and release. “I’m sorry,” he says, “It was a _mistake_ ,” he says, and Pansy can’t bring herself to look at him, not directly. She stares at their reflection in the mirror hanging back behind the bar: Justin apologetic and nervous, Pansy silent and pale. The longer she looks the more their faces blur, something that is equal parts too much champagne and the sting of rejection. She can hear her mother’s voice in her head, that twinge of maternal disappointment: _What do you expect from a Muggleborn?_ Pansy closes her eyes, just for a moment, and swallows hard; she slides off her barstool and moves around the counter to set their glasses in the sink. She’s hyperaware of their nearness, now, careful not to touch him, to keep even her eyes away from his.

“I should lock up,” she says, and her voice is smooth, untroubled. “It’s getting late. I’d like to finish closing.”

Justin fumbles with his jacket as he stands, draped awkwardly over his arm as he watches her wash their glassware, set the empty bottle in the box under the sink. He’s always hard to read but never more than now: embarrassment and pity and fear flit over his features in infuriatingly equal measure, his mouth a worried line that twists when he tries to tell her, “I didn’t mean for this to –”

“It’s fine.” She cuts him off sharply, brushing her hair back from her face. There is the mask she wears daily, the blank, indifferent calm she saves for rude patrons, bad tippers, Susan Bones. She never thought she’d have to use it with him. “It’s _fine_. Just… you should get going. I need to finish up before Tom has my head.”

She motions toward the door and when he doesn’t move, Pansy strides across the room and opens it for him. Justin follows but stops at the threshold, fixing her with an expectant look that only makes her feel empty. This is what she gets for opening herself up, for wanting strings and attachment; this is what she gets for thinking things could ever be normal again.

“I’m sorry,” Justin says again, and Pansy locks the door behind him, she draws the shade, she lowers the lights; she makes it halfway up the stairs before she lets herself cry.

 


End file.
